Don't Bet on Blondes

A (Not Particularly) Guilty Conscience; or DJ Debauchery, Part I

2011-12-08T16:04:00.010+13:00

A couple of years ago, Tinks and I spent our summer university break overseas, working as cocktail waitresses in nightclubs for a few months. Much debauchery ensued, as is to be expected, and early on I compiled a “To Do” list of various co-workers and regulars whom I intended to fuck. There is only one way to get off this list.

One of the club’s resident DJs, Napoleon Dynamite, caught my eye early on, and I added him to the list. He had a striking resemblance to Jon Heder (hence the nickname), was dizzyingly tall and tended to be mobbed by scantily dressed female patrons as soon as he left his booth. This, combined with his propensity to drink until he was near-paralytic, made him irresistible to me, and I was determined to bang him before the summer was out.

As I began to plot in earnest, I quickly realised that ND was not as slutty or as single as I had initially assumed. For a few weeks, I never saw him leave with anyone other than the girl who was, a quick Facebook stalk revealed, his on-again/ off-again girlfriend. Figuring it wouldn’t be long until they were “off’, at least temporarily, I put my stalking on hold and concentrated on the rest of my list.

Now, my place of work, despite being a nightclub, was not the den of iniquity one might imagine. My slutty schoolgirl uniform was primarily for the benefit of the patrons, sexual relationships between staff being strictly verboten. As one of the youngest staffers, I was also invested in maintaining the innocent façade I'd cultivated, which was useful for keeping the managers and bouncers onside. Having said this, it was fairly common for the staff to be at least somewhat intoxicated as they worked, and, as is my wont, I was in the habit of taking this to unnecessary extremes, with sometimes unintended consequences.

One particular night, I started my shift comfortably wasted, noticing as I sauntered about the club eyefucking hot patrons that ND was DJing. I included him in my eyefucking, for good measure. He finished at around 2am, and proceeded to loiter near the bar. As I walked past, he greeted me casually, somewhat drunk already, and beckoned me over every time I entered his sphere. We flirted, and he sneaked me shots, but by this stage the club was beginning to empty and I knew that we were too exposed for him to make a move.

The next time I came over to bring him drinks, he rested his hand on my lower back.

"So, babe, are you taking me home or what?"

I smirked, raised my eyebrow and responded, "we'll see," before sashaying away. The club continued to empty, and the part ND had been drinking in closed for the night. He stayed there, though, as I found out when cutting through on the way to the bar after I'd signed off for the night. He grabbed me as I walked behind a booth, kissed me and started tearing at my clothes. Staff were still milling about, so I pushed him off me and told him we had to leave separately.

We rejoined one another halfway down the street, and headed to my apartment. He dragged me to the bedroom and set about fucking me. After about fifteen minutes, something occurred to him:

"Don't leave any marks."

I pretended not to know what he was talking about.

"How come?" Pregnant pause, while I looked at him with wide eyes. "Oh my god. " Theatrical gasp. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

He nodded, too overcome with guilt to speak. Or maybe too drunk, it's difficult to say. We kept going, and as we fucked, I, feeling myself to be occupying some sort of moral high ground (as far as he knew, anyway) took the opportunity to lecture him about cheating on his girlfriend.

When morning rolled around, after engaging in another round of guilty sex, I checked the time and realised I was missing out on prime tanning time by the pool with Tinks.

"So, I think I'll go and join Tinkerbell now..." I trailed off, looking at ND meaningfully.

"Are you kicking me out?" he asked in disbelief. After I rocked your world?

"Haha, come on..." Yes.

I left the room and waited for him in the lounge. He emerged, fully dressed, having taken longer than I felt was really necessary.

"Are you going to the beach? Will you walk me to my car?"

"Um, I'm going to the pool in our building. I'll see you at work?"

"Babe." He seemed flabbergasted. "You're seriously kicking me out?"

"Haha...kind of? Won't your girlfriend be wondering where you are? But I'll see you at work."

"...Okay, then. See you tonight."

I did see him that night, and numerous nights afterwards, but we never slept together again, despite ND's best efforts. Ultimately I only wanted him for the novelty value/perceived challenge, and his relative lack of sophistication and merely adequate sexual prowess meant I couldn't be bothered taking him up on his offers for a repeat experience. Besides, I had the rest of my list to tackle. Couldn't let myself get distracted.

The Powerade Chronicles: Tales of Town Undies, Part V

2011-12-07T11:09:00.003+13:00

You might have missed:

Part I

Part II
Part III
Part IV

My enjoyment of my loneliness was rudely interrupted by Powerade Boy Facebook messaging me, demanding to know why I turned down banging him because he didn't respect my best friend. Poetry, written by his favourite slut, Ivy, ensued:

The fact he took it seriously was testament to his intelligence (or lack, thereof). Did I mention he is an unemployed builder?

What was a girl to do but enlist her best friend to write another poetic masterpiece:

Given that I didn't want to fuck him so bad, I didn't bring my poems in a notebook, but messaged them instead. It was time to bring out the big guns: an acrostic revealing my true sentiments:

After I reminded him that he was not a nice guy, he then took to poorly attempting mind-fuckery by suggesting "I didn't really know who I was". Despite these exchanges, he was still keen:

As if it needs to be said, he did not figure it out. Many of my friends felt sorry for "poor PB". I maintain that he was asking for it, but, being the nice girl I am, told him to read the acrostic poem again. The fact that "I DON'T LIKE YOU" finally dawned on him.

And here, the story ends:

Being Antisocial on Social Media: CreEpSOL

2011-12-07T10:39:00.002+13:00

Whenever I receive messages like this on Facebook, I have to wonder whether this method of courtship ever actually works (and also how they found me. Seriously, we have no mutual friends or networks. How?). I'm assuming that, despite my undeniable hotness, they are not focusing their efforts exclusively on me; with how many girls do they try this? To what end? Obviously there is a certain amount of old-fashioned lust involved, but I imagine the distance might be a bit of a problem there.

I suppose webcam trysts and the like might be more his endgame, to which I give a resounding "as if". Firstly, I am far too careful of my privacy for that. Secondly, what's in it for me? The sight of a random engorged penis does absolutely nothing for my libido, and his (admittedly impressive, I had a wee stalk of his enormous gym album - another black mark) muscles are overdeveloped for my tastes.

I guess I can't fault him for trying. Having said that, trying earns him no points, bringing his total points to zero. Sorry, babe: Love is not possible.

Five Years of Fantasy, Fulfilled.

2011-12-06T01:36:00.011+13:00

My twenty-first birthday came at an interesting time: I was in the midst of fighting my depression and getting over the fact the boy I loved was incapable of expressing that he reciprocated my feelings. Many of my low points at the beginning of the year (and throughout my teenage angsty phase) stemmed from my low self esteem - a character flaw, which, despite my insatiably large ego, has been tough to kick. I hated myself to the point where I felt as though I was such an inherently horrible person, the world would be a better place without me. My friends and family, after all, would no longer have the burden of dealing with me.

Initially, instead of taking it upon myself to realise that I did not deserve to feel this way, I chased boys who perpetuated such feelings. I would give them everything; superficially, they had sex with me, but on a deeper level, I pinned my entire self worth upon them validating me. Inevitably, they would tire of me, and I would be left feeling like there was indeed something wrong with me. Having my ego so intrinsically tied up with my heart left me chasing boys significantly less intelligent, attractive and funny than me, simply because they played "hard to get". I put them up on pedestals - I perceived them all to be "far too hot to go for a girl like me", and when I'd inevitably get them, I'd tell them so. I didn't want to fuck them because I was attracted to them. I wanted to fuck them so for a brief moment, I'd believe I was attractive.

On the eve of my twenty first birthday, I caught the eye of Gym-Fan, one of the boys up on my pedestal. I knew GF through my high school boyfriend. His lack of interest in me nearly five years ago stuck. I found him incredibly attractive, and when I discovered that we went to the same gym, I would endeavour to turn up to classes that he had frequented the week before in the hopes of seeing him there. I wasn't obsessed, but he was fodder for fantasising while I lifted weights in Power - especially because he didn't acknowledge that he knew who I was. He was deliciously unattainable.

So, after spotting Gym-Fan lounging outside a bar with a mutual friend, I, fuelled by codeine, cocktails and a recovering sense of self-worth, took it upon myself to eye fuck the shit out of him. The stars aligned, and the mutual friend invited Ivy and I to join them at their table. A few other people were sitting with us also, but they are irrelevant aside from the fact that they were privy to what unfolded next. It wasn't long after we had been poured glasses of sangria that I decided to introduce myself to Gym-Fan, properly.

"You're ____. I see you at the gym and think about fucking you."

Having Gym-Fan come over, whisper in my ear that we should catch up later before disappearing to "see a man about a dog", was the response of my dreams. My ego and I were incredibly turned on. He thinks I'm hot! I didn't want to get to know him, I didn't care what he did for a living, all that mattered was that I didn't think I could get him, and I was proving myself wrong. Apparently my brazen introduction must have scared a few of our table mates, because the only people who remained afterward were me, Ivy and an unknown witness (male). The male assured me that yes, everyone did indeed hear what you just said to GF, and also alerted me to the fact that GF was currently with gf. All the better to validate me, thought my ego. Further banter ensued, the minutes passed, and I received a phone call from Gym-Fan. He was in a taxi outside the bar.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ivy asked me. This remains the first time she has ever attempted to cock-block me. I brushed her off. I've lusted after him for five years - of course I wanted to do this.

Brushing her off, we made haste back to my flat, where we wasted no time getting to the important stuff: fucking, and making me feel hot. He succeeded on both counts. GF was clearly absolutely stoked to have his dick in my mouth, as evidenced by his enthusiastic vocal responses to my efforts. My fantasy quickly became a reality. The more I fucked him, the more he told me how great I was, and the more I realised that he was attainable, just like any boy. And the novelty of this boy had worn off fast.

In the morning, he fucked me from behind. Despite me now finding him "easy", I wasn't about to turn down an ego boost that was naked and in my bed. Afterwards, he rolled over, groaning slightly.

"You're going to think I'm a piece of shit."
Girlfriend guilt reared its ugly head. I feigned innocence.
"Don't worry about me - it's your conscience you have to deal with," I tactlessly comforted him, "Have you never done this before?"
"No... fuck. You can't contact me after this. I'm so sorry. But like, you can't text me or anything."

He left soon afterward, and my ego was satiated knowing he had been so overcome with desire for me that he cheated (for the very first time, no less). We didn't speak for a few months afterward, and I didn't really give him much thought. GF was just a boy who couldn't make me feel beautiful.

Gym-Fan was the last of the boys I chased for no reason other than to be validated. It's almost ironic that I used the boy who I expected to be used by. It's also a little sad how long it took me to realise that doing such a thing didn't make me feel any better about myself - which of course, was my original aim (if anything, it made me feel worse). Going into the benefits of healthy self-esteem when it comes to getting boys is another entry in itself, but let me end by saying that no-one will ever like, love or even bang you the way you long for until you feel like that is what you deserve. In the words of Tucker Max:

"There is no such thing as "deserving" respect; you get what you demand from people.. if you demand respect, he will either respect you or he won't associate with you. It really is that simple."

Being Antisocial on Social Media: Gulliboy

2011-12-05T20:26:00.015+13:00

Random adds from boys who fancy you based on a carefully-chosen profile picture are one of the most entertaining aspects of the social networking revolution. Generally I adopt an alternate persona of some description and string them along until they catch on or I get bored. I've been doing this for a couple of years (I feel old), and recently dug up an email to Tinks in which I copy/pasted some conversations between myself and a particularly tolerant young man.

(FYI, I wasn't actually 17, nor am I even the slightest bit Welsh.)

Gulliboy hey whats up?

Poison Ivy um nm lol u?

Gulliboy haha, I just finshed going out for a celebratory cigar and whiskey

Poison Ivy celebratin wat? ew whiskys grosss

Gulliboy I got 100% in a test, well at least I may have haha, it was multi choice but who cares

Poison Ivy wow u must b smart wat r u studyin?

Gulliboy whiskey is nice, the name means water of life.

Poison Ivy in wat languge?

Gulliboy Law and commerce, but the test wasn't for ;aw, no one gets 100% for that.

I scottish, although my friend told me that and he might have been pulling my leg

Poison Ivy Hm

Gulliboy You think its crap? might be

Poison Ivy oh em gee defs i wuld say

Gulliboy do you like my profile picture?

Poison Ivy lol its tiny at the top of this box

hang on

Gulliboy Haha yea so is yours I made the flag myself

Note: His profile picture was him standing outdoors, looking intrepid, holding a flag.

Poison Ivy wat r u doing? plz tell me nt orienteering

Gulliboy lol no, It was a camping trip that my friends and I went on for new years, we do it every year so I made a flag for our camp

Poison Ivy lol y a star?

Gulliboy I had to paint it on the bonett of my car

Poison Ivy ...is ur car star shapeD? iv neva seen a shaped car, it must be COOL@!!

Gulliboy Nah but the paint soaked through and left a star imprinted on the bonett.

Poison Ivy oh em gee, is it stilll ther?

Gulliboy I guess I choose are star cos it looks important on a flag

Poison Ivy u shud have made it pink lol

Gulliboy Nah it washed off.

Poison Ivy o dta sux

Gulliboy It was cool though cos it looked like an army car with the star on the front. Its a red ute

Do you have a car?

Poison Ivy red+ green= chrismas!

dnt hav a license LOLZ

Gulliboy Slack

Poison Ivy well teknikly i do, bt learners only lol

Gulliboy My flat mate mate is 21 and still only has his learners so I wouldn't worry to much You going out 2moro night?

Poison Ivy i hav work :(

Gulliboy thats my flat mate matt not my flat mate mate lol

oh yea hospo job?

Poison Ivy yea

lolz, didnt even notice dta

Gulliboy Right bed time I think, good night :)

Poison Ivy nite@!

The Powerade Chronicles: Tales of Town Undies, Part IV

2011-12-05T20:03:00.008+13:00

You might have missed:

Part I

Part II

Part III

"I heard u were taking me home tonight" - PB, a text, 24th of October.

It was the evening of the Rugby World Cup final when the pimple that was the relationship between PB and I really came to a head. New Zealanders were celebrating the win in true Kiwi style: binge drinking and banging. I dropped many a hint to PB as to my whereabouts, all the while refusing to go to him. Clearly his penis won out over his pride, as by 3AM, I spotted him from across the dance-floor. I was with Poison Ivy - not exactly his biggest fan, and my dear friend Eminem (both of whom I have pashed when inebriated - a fact that does not apply to PB despite his best efforts). He greeted Ivy condescendingly, with a forced smile that one might use if confronted with a particularly smelly person apologising for invading one's personal space on public transport. Unsurprisingly, after such a cordial interaction, Ivy and Eminem left me to deal with PB on my own.

"Who's that guy?" PB asked, in reference to Eminem after they had gone, "He looks like a creep."

Now, Eminem may have licked my face as means of bidding me farewell, but PB really needed to learn that alienating the girl you are trying to get it in with's friends is not conducive to achieving penetration. Perhaps I should forgive him, though, as he was clearly grappling with the discrepancy between what his dick wanted (me) and what his head was telling him (getting the hell away from me). "Aghhhh!" he protested, all the while giving me looks of lust, "I'm supposed to hate you!" At this point, I was satisfied with my messing with him. It was time to leave.

PB: Let's get a pie.
Me: I can't eat pies.
PB: Pastry! Come onnnn.
Me: You get a pie. I'm going home.

I eventually stalked off, and he relinquished his mince and cheese craving in favour of calling me a slut as a way to get into bed with him.
PB: There's obviously something between us. Come on, you know from experience, it's better sleeping with someone you know than some random.
Me (clearly enamoured with the prospect): PB, I don't like you. If you think you're going to fuck me, it's not going to happen.
PB: But what about that time when I nearly saw your box (in reference to the sexless underwear party)? I remembered that for a while.

We continued in this fashion until he eventually demanded to know the real reason I wasn't going to sleep with him - because apparently my lack of desire to was irrelevant. I revealed that I had a huge problem with the fact he thought my best friend was a slut.

PB: Come on, if my best mate walked in in the morning with herpes all over his dick from some slut giving him head, you'd judge him.
Me: But PB, Ivy didn't have herpes. She had hickies. They aren't the same thing.
PB: They are to me! So why won't you fuck me?

He finally got the picture - only after I'd told him at least twenty times. Conveniently, he was right outside my house when he ended our rendez vous - I got escorted home safely, saving myself a taxi fare, whilst ensuring that he didn't pull a girl when his country won the Rugby World Cup.

"Enjoy your loneliness, Tinks."

Musings on the Relationship Between Music, and, well, My Relationships: The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me

2011-12-05T16:25:00.028+13:00

This is in no way a review, except perhaps of my own behaviour. This album means a lot to me, and I am completely unable to be objective about it.

I was 17 when first I heard Brand New's The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me, and in my last year of high school. Shortly after I discovered it, while it was still on repeat on my stereo, I met a boy. This is not uncommon for me now, but at the time I was not in the habit of meeting boys, and I was certainly not in the habit of liking them. Teenage boys are complicated in a way that has nothing to do with the way teenage girls are complicated: I always felt that, while I had too many feelings as a teenager, boys had too few. Ironically, I now find the situation reversed, but that isn’t relevant to this story; my point being that the boy I met was not a teenager, and so I found myself in the relatively unfamiliar position of liking him. Because I can't think of an appropriate nickname, and I really loved Gargoyles when I was a kid, I'll call him Goliath.

Determined though I was to make him mine, I was, and am, endowed with a strong sense of self-preservation, and so for a time I did nothing. Circumstances dictated that we saw rather a lot of each other, and we talked and flirted, and I memorised and dissected the intricacies of our every interaction. I was more or less miserable, and I cradled my misery as proof that our relationship was somehow as significant to him, and to the universe, as it was to me. To this end, I wallowed. I still have most of my favourite playlists from this period, and, one and all, they feature songs from this album. While alone, I preferred just to listen to the album itself, on repeat, until I was either completely numb or so overly emotional that I couldn't take it any longer.

I remember thinking to myself sentimentally “I fell in love with this album at the same time I fell in love with him.” I don’t know if this is true or not; I don’t think so. I doubt whether I was actually in love with him, for a start, but certainly what I felt was a shade of that feeling, more dilute than love, but in the same colour family. I think in some ways the music made me fall for him so deeply: there is a lot of regret and pain and self-hatred in the lyrics, and I was subconsciously looking for someone to validate my identifying with the music by causing me as much pain as possible. Having said that, if I met him for the first time today, I would still want him; whether I would allow myself to get so caught up in him is doubtful, but you never know.

So I liked the music, and I liked him, and I liked the way he and my feelings about him and the stupid way I dealt with them allowed me to relate to the music. He was free with his smiles, and easy to talk to, and I wasn’t used to wanting something that I couldn’t immediately have. I became obsessed. Things progressed, in fits and starts, with me throwing up the brakes whenever I felt out of my depth, which was often. What I really wanted was for him to override my decisions and take the control that I was so terrified to have, but he was too easy going for that. My desire stretched over a summer during which I saw him not once, both of us having gone to separate overseas destinations. I spent this period listening to Brand New almost exclusively, supplementing with other artists only when they could support similar levels of self-pity in their listener. I became sentimental and romantic in a way that I have never been before or since, and decided to get a tattoo of some lyrics* on my arm (I didn’t go through with this, thank god).

I came back to the city, and, in my mind, back to him. I spent the next few months engaging in various first year university activities, getting drunk, and involving him in as much of this as possible. We had an unusual relationship, one that I only somewhat understand to this day; I think at the heart of it, though, I was too young and too invested and completely failed to hide this, no matter how hard I tried. I was then, and am still, committed to game playing. I wasn’t ever really honest about anything with him, preferring not to discuss anything directly, assuming we were operating under an unspoken agreement that I’m sure only existed in my head. It fizzled out, as these things are wont to do, and I kept listening to The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me while missing him desperately and hoping for another chance. I saw him often, still, and these interactions kept my hopes afloat. I was intensely jealous of every female he knew, observing their friendships with him with an obsessive energy that I don’t think I could muster today. Ultimately, I was forced to move on by his moving away, about a year after I met him. I was relieved, really: letting him go was made hard for me by my certainty that, as soon as I gave up, he would enter into a relationship with somebody that I knew. Away from me, he is also away from the friends we share, and I can forget about him more wholly than I ever could in a city as small as the one I occupy.

Perhaps ‘I can ignore him’ would be more accurate, because, of course, I haven’t forgotten him, really. I still see him on occasion, for a start, and we’re still friends on Facebook. I cherished thoughts of how he’d “screwed me over” for a while; it fed my need to cast everything in the most dramatic light possible. I’d listen to Limousine (MS Rebridge), the lyrics of which are partially based on a horrific true story, and Not the Sun over and over, attempting to drown in my own anguish. But eventually he ceased to be the subject of my every waking thought, and I didn’t listen to Brand New so much anymore. Their music is still part of my life, and in a way, so is he: my dalliance with him exists to me as a permanent reminder never to lose control like that again. Investing in relationships, for me, is tricky, and I know some of the reason for that is because that early investment failed so spectacularly. It’s my fault; I played it wrong from beginning to end. I liked him, a lot, and I was swept away by the drama and sorrow I saw in my favourite album: I sought it, and I got it.

* My bright is too slight to hold back all my dark – Jesus, by Brand New

The Powerade Chronicles: Tales of Town Undies, Part III

2011-12-05T12:15:00.004+13:00

Things between old PB and I took a hiatus after I attended a pirate party (wearing a deliciously trashy costume, pictured right). He was at home alone, and offered to pick me up from wherever at whatever hour, presumably to rescue me - despite the fact I "become a different person on the turps, Tinks". I quickly lost interest in our text banter, and woke up the next morning to texts questioning whether I had a boy in my bed.

I did (one I genuinely liked and respected, no less).

I told him so.

PB had enough self-respect to take the hint, however not enough to refrain from whining about how he never got any from me - "this is why I never make an effort with chicks!". He was so cut he blocked me from Facebook and deleted my number.

The story does not end there. I was motivated to text him again after discovering he used the beds of his mates in which to bang girls in (he still lives with his parents). I was utterly determined to give the misogynistic twat - "if a lock is opened by many keys its(sic) a shitty lock haha" - something to really hate me for. A simple "heard you pull girls all the time" from me was all that was needed to dissolve the barriers of my deleted cellphone number and blocked FB profile keeping us apart and strike up our courtship once more.

You might have missed:

Part I

Part II

In which I meet C-Bomb

2011-12-05T11:29:00.008+13:00

It’s impossible to tell how awkward things will get when you hook up with an acquaintance, workmate or friend-of-a-friend, as opposed to the always-simple random hook up. I was meant to be going to drinks at a former workmate’s, however, the gathering was reduced (without my knowledge) to a foursome: me, my friend Kim Possible, our host Disco, and his friend C-Bomb.

I took a more-or-less immediate fancy to C-Bomb, probably because he was visibly annoyed when KP and I showed up, and made no effort to hide it. There’s nothing I like more than a (perceived) challenge. The four of us proceeded to play drinking games and story top one another, our anecdotes getting more and more outrageous. So far, so standard. C-Bomb no longer seems to hate me. This is confirmed when, KP and Disco engaged in conversation on the balcony, I wander over to see what C-Bomb is doing, and take off my shoes to do a height comparison. Falling backwards into an armchair, I am surprised when C-Bomb sits down next to me and begins to give me a foot massage.

C-Bomb: “I’ll give you a proper one at the end of the night. I don’t know how you manage in those things."

I am so drunk as to be nearly non-verbal at this point, so I’m pretty sure I just responded with a giggle. That is, in fact, the last thing I remember for the next four or five hours. KP tells me that we went into town, got drinks etc, and that she lost us for most of the night.

Disco, C-Bomb and I end up back at Disco’s apartment at 4am, watching a movie. C-Bomb and I are snuggled together on the couch. Disco goes to bed, and C-Bomb and I go back to my flat.

The next morning, I awaken to find C-Bomb smiling at me.

“You look so pretty sleeping,” he says. “Most girls look kind of bad. I wanted to wake you up and fuck you again, but you looked too cute.”

“You should have woken me,” I said.

The Powerade Chronicles: Tales of Town Undies, Part II

2011-12-05T10:30:00.008+13:00

Our courtship continued.

I deigned to go on one "adventure" with him. Unfortunately for PB, this adventure did not involve either of us getting naked, rather, him paying for coffee and me collecting shells on the beach to avoid kissing him. We engaged in honest and engaging conversation on topics such as his town undies - special boxers he saves for when out on the pull, of which he owns "three or four pairs". He also opened up about his suspicions of girls who kept themselves free of hair "down there" - "clearly they would be making the most of it - at least when they have a bush you know the girl wouldn't be slutting around".

FB chat became our primary means of communication.

I didn't come over.

He maintained that he wasn't used to chasing girls. This piece of conversation illustrates that fact beautifully.

He may have earned points for his persistence but he certainly didn't earn any respect.

You might have missed:
Part I

The Powerade Chronicles: Tales of Town Undies, Part I

2011-12-05T09:59:00.009+13:00

Usually getting a boy's number whilst out on a Friday night does not make for the most exciting of stories. Powerade Boy, however was in a league of his own. The weekend we met, he occupied himself on both Friday and Saturday evening by ditching his friends to chase me around various bars. Despite my obvious disinterest, he was filled with such lust that the only thing that could deter him was being forced to witness me engage in a passionate kiss with a "short, black boy" immediately after downing a drink (that he had purchased). Abusive texts followed: "good luck finding a decent bloke ... you'll need it!" "sucks. you could be a ridiculously good looking girl and a top chick. but!" and finally, at 5AM, "i'm at BK ... u hungry?".

I woke up still intoxicated, in dire need of cuddles and an isotonic sports drink. I text Powerade Boy telling him so, however, given my classy behaviour mere hours earlier, I did not expect to have my desires fulfilled. He proved me wrong, and twenty minutes later, his nickname was earned with no dignity.

Unfortunately, although I was satisfied, PB clearly had an agenda of his own. He was more than unimpressed when Poison Ivy came to join the party in my bed, and the nuzzling of my neck he had been occupying himself with earlier was replaced with the two of us ruthlessly ripping out his choice of underwear (stripy boxers). His rebuttal? "The horizontal lines make my penis look bigger." To add to his frustration, Ivy and I writhed about in a teasing manner - both of us in matching underwear, and he would periodically roll over and groan about the additions he was making to his "wank bank".

PB really had a hard time with Ivy, possibly because she had greater skin-to-skin contact with me than he ever had a hope of achieving. He expressed this through extreme judgement of the love bites adorning her neck. As if it needs to be said, the way to get amongst the subject of your masturbation material is not to slut shame the best friend.

We passed up relieving his blue balls in favour of kicking him out of bed and going to get brunch.

Is it too much to ask?

2010-06-21T22:58:00.004+12:00

Poison Ivy

I feel like snuggling

snug as a bug in a rug

22:06

Tinkerbell

me too

with a boy who doesnt have to be good looking, just tolerates all my shit

22:06

Poison Ivy

and cuddly

not fat

or chubs

but not all bony or anything

who will flirt with me in such a way that I don't have to put in any effort

22:07

Tinkerbell

yes. and will put up with me ruthlessly fishing for compliments

22:07

Poison Ivy

yes

and will leave me alone when I want to sleep, but won;t go to sleep before I do

22:08

Tinkerbell

and massage my back and expect nothing in return

22:09

Poison Ivy

and will be sufficiently warm, but not so that I overheat at any point during the night

22:10

Tinkerbell

and not spoon me unless i wanted to

22:11

Poison Ivy

and not ask me any loaded questions

22:12

Tinkerbell

and just accept it and not make a fuss when i upgrade

22:13

Poison Ivy

and stay on really great terms, so I can just call on him between other guys

a sexy boy who doesn't pine should not be too much to ask

I don't even require discretion

22:16

Tinkerbell

exactly

but the thing is

most nz boys are so conservative that if they were propositioned with such an offer, they would misconstrue it as "she has feelings"

and if not, they would think "she is a slut" and immediately not want me in the vicinity of their bed

for fear of catching STIs by them jumping, like nits

22:18

Poison Ivy

haha you're so on the mark it's not even funny

australian guys definitely have the edge where casual sex is concerned